Torpedo Run (1981) Read online

  Only seven had survived the bitter cold and tempting numbness of sleep.

  One had been Devane’s commanding officer, who had said flatly, ‘I wasn’t going to die like that! When I go, I’m taking a few of those bastards with me.’ He was right. He was killed three months later.

  Devane jerked upright as a voice yelled from the bridge, ‘Aircraft! Aircraft bearing red four-five! Angle of sight one-five!’

  The alarm bells jangled throughout the boat, and Devane ran for the ladder, his mind frozen and stopped like a watch as he waited for the game to begin.

  Covers were ripped from the muzzles, which were still blackened from the night’s fighting. Hatches and doors were slammed shut, and men groped for ammunition or jammed themselves firmly into their gun-shields and harnesses.

  Seymour was training his binoculars over the screen. Without lowering them he said, ‘Two, sir. Look like Ju 88s.’

  The boatswain’s mate said, ‘All guns closed up, sir.’

  Devane watched the two black silhouettes. So small, so slowly confident as they banked right over to reveal their twin engines and caught the sunlight on their cockpit covers.

  Devane said, ‘Tell the engine room what’s happening. These beauties will take a good look at us first. But I’ll lay odds they’re calling up their chums right now.’

  He added, ‘Better move the wounded man to the wardroom. He’ll have a bit more protection over his head.’

  Pellegrine swung the spokes and cursed as the hull tried to drag the bows off course.

  ‘Not to bother, sir. He’s bought it.’

  Devane rubbed his eyes and then searched for the two Junkers again. Bought it. So easily said. In England there would be another heartbreak, another telegram and, hopefully, a sympathetic letter.

  He thought suddenly of the silent women in the hotel. Waiting for their husbands’ medals.

  No wonder Whitcombe had planned for the extra crew members.

  ‘Here they come.’ Devane wheeled round. ‘They’ll close from starboard. Stand by all guns!’

  The two aircraft had settled down on a shallow approach and were wafer-thin above the water as they turned towards the slow-moving MTB.

  God, how long they were taking. Devane heard cocking levers being pulled and the starboard machine-gunner whistling through his teeth as he depressed both barrels to hold the enemy in his crosswires.

  Devane said, ‘Get up forrard, David, and supervise the six-pounder crew.’

  Once more their eyes met. Seymour did not need to be told why. Devane was sending him from the bridge in case the whole bunch of them were wiped out to leave the boat without an officer or a coxswain.

  Devane studied the oncoming aircraft until his eyes watered. Coming out of the sun, as they always did. How many more times was he going to cross swords with them, he wondered? The Ju 88 had a formidable reputation as a fighter, a bomber and recce aircraft all in one.

  As the planes drew closer they appeared to accelerate. Devane held his breath as the cannon and machine-guns stabbed out from the leader. He saw the shells and bullets flailing the sea like whips, then tensed as steel whimpered overhead and a great shadow roared above the mast, the twin engines deafening as the plane pulled up and away in a steep climb.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The Oerlikons, already trained to port, sent two lines of tracer searing after the aircraft, then swung round again as the second attacker tore towards them.

  ‘Hard a-starboard!’

  Painfully the MTB slewed round, the six-pounder hammering violently as if to outpace the machine-guns on either side of the bridge.

  ‘Midships! Port fifteen! Steady!’

  Devane had to stop himself from cringing as the Junkers 88 roared overhead, its pilot momentarily off balance because of their zigzag turn. He thought he saw smoke from the enemy’s belly, and guessed the six-pounder had found a target. But these planes could take a lot of punishment. Devane knew that from long and bitter experience.

  The aircraft were dividing, one climbing slowly, the other turning in a wide circle almost brushing the water. Devane saw the black crosses on the wings, could even imagine the thoughts of the two pilots. The MTB was alone but apparently not disabled.

  Aloud he said, ‘They’ll come in from bow and beam. Just to test us. Hold your fire until the last hundred yards.’

  He tore his eyes from the two black silhouettes and looked along his command. Gaunt, unshaven faces, red-rimmed eyes. The feverish light of battle. Toughened hands which had once wielded pens in an office or school, or had served bread to chatty housewives, like Carroll, who was now helping a lookout to drag more ammunition to the machine-guns. These were his men. Men their mothers and wives, sweethearts and friends would never see.

  He saw Orel and his interpreter carrying a sub-machine-gun to the rear of the bridge and wondered where they had found it. Probably discarded by the soldiers when they had swarmed ashore, a million years ago.

  Forward, squatting down behind the gun-layer and his mate, Seymour was pointing towards the low-flying Junkers. No, his parents would certainly not recognize him, the dreamer, the would-be writer.

  Devane let the glasses drop to his chest as the two planes started their run-in, dividing the MTB’s defences by their varied heights and bearings.

  And what of me? She had wanted to hear from him. What was it really like?

  ‘Here come the bastards!’

  Seymour was yelling, ‘Hold your fire! Easy, easy!’ Like a man calming an excited horse.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The guns hammered into life, the tracers streaking away and crisscrossing the aircraft like a vivid web.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  Splinters cracked and thudded across the hull, and a shell ripped through the flag locker and exploded above the side deck. Devane saw Carroll puff out his cheeks and Pellegrine tug his battered cap more tightly across his slitted eyes as if to get better control of the wheel.

  The six-pounder purred round and bracketed the second aircraft as it thundered across the sky, its great wings making it look like a bird of prey about to snatch them from the sea.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  More bullets and cannon shells ripped across the hull, and Devane saw a hole appear in the gratings within inches of his seaboot.

  ‘Cease firing!’

  Devane tore at his collar and wiped his face and throat with a piece of rag. The two attackers were turning away, like conspirators, as they prepared for another run.

  Devane shouted, ‘Report damage and casualties! More magazines, lively there!’

  Men came from their stiff attitudes and stumbled to obey his commands. There was not one of them on deck who was older than twenty-five, and most were nineteen or thereabouts. But as they readjusted their gun-sights and dragged at magazines and belts they responded like old men.

  Devane licked his lips. They felt like parchment.

  Two more attacks like the last one, maybe just one, and they had had it. It was like fighting a tiger with an umbrella.

  He saw the seaman called Irwin tying a bandage on Orel’s wrist, and the port machine-gunner playing with a crucifix which hung from his identity disc.

  We’re all equal here. So equal we’ll be nothing in a few more minutes.

  Devane shouted, ‘Keep at it, lads. Wear the bastards down!’

  It made him want to hide his face as he watched their efforts to rally to his words.

  A thumbs-up from one, a broad grin from the six-pounder gun-layer, the tough leading hand from Manchester. Even Pellegrine was looking at him and nodding.

  Carroll said in a hushed voice, ‘Engine room, sir.’

  Devane crossed to the voicepipe in two strides. So they were not even to have that last chance, that impossible gesture which had seen the end of so many battles.

  ‘Yes?’

  Ackland called, ‘I can give you fifteen knots, sir.’ He must have taken Devane’s silence for disappointment. ‘O
n all three shafts.’

  Devane dimly heard the rising note of the aircraft as they turned towards the MTB once again. ‘Thanks, Chief. Bloody well done. And they say there are no more miracles.’

  Ackland sounded confused. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Never mind, Chief. Give me all you’ve got, right now!’ He snapped down the cover. ‘Hard a-starboard, Swain!’ He felt the deck rising to the added thrust even as the wheel went over. ‘Steady!’

  The leading Junkers seemed to swerve away as the MTB’s wake broadened out on either beam in a rich white furrow. Fifteen knots was not much compared with nearly forty, but after their slow acceptance of the repeated attacks it felt like a new heart in the boat.

  ‘On the first aircraft! Fire!’

  Devane clung to the jerking bridge and watched every weapon which would bear, even Orel’s short-range Tommy gun as it cracked out in unison.

  Maybe the enemy pilot imagined the MTB had been shamming, although at these speeds it was hard to think clearly about anything. But Devane had seen the darker line in the plane’s belly, the bomb bay doors wide open to put an end to the impudent boat once and for all. Their sudden increase of speed, made more impressive by the churned wash astern, must have unnerved the German enough to make him change his approach.

  Devane saw the ripple of flashes along the fuselage, the spurts of bright fire from one engine as the cannon shells smashed into the exposed belly and wing like a fiery claw. Then the plane exploded, blasted apart by her own bombs.

  One second it was still there, filling the sky, and the next there was a solid ball of fire. Devane could feel the force of the explosion and its consuming heat until the fragments were scattered across the sea and only the drifting smoke remained.

  The other Junkers came in fast and low, but the attack was at arm’s length, with only the machine-guns spitting through the drifting pall above their consort’s remains.

  A few bullets hit the hull and some whined overhead, then the Junkers altered course away from them and did not turn back.

  Leading Signalman Carroll was training his glasses towards the starboard bow and exclaimed huskily, ‘Here come the cavalry! No wonder the buggers made off!’

  Devane clung to the screen and listened to the vague throb of aircraft growing stronger and stronger. Sorokin had kept his word. They had made it.

  He stared at his hands on the bridge rail, mesmerized by the red streak he had left on the grey paint with his fingers.

  Seymour pounded up the ladder and stopped as he saw the shock on Carroll’s face. Then he ran across the bridge and caught Devane in his arms as he lost his grip and began to fall.

  For a few seconds they stood like statues, words pointless, as three pairs of Russian fighters screamed overhead in pursuit of the Junkers.

  Then Seymour said, ‘Help me with the captain! He’s hit!’

  Devane stared at the sky. The pain was coming now. A hot, relentless probe, deeper and deeper.

  He tried to hold on, to keep his mind from slipping away. He congratulated himself that he had recognized the disbelief in Seymour’s voice. But now he knew that even their leader could break and die like the seaman named . . . it was getting confused. What was the man’s name? He had died too. Here on the bridge. What was. . . .

  Seymour lowered Devane to the gratings, aided by Ordinary Seaman Metcalf.

  ‘Help me get his jacket off.’ He tore open the clothing, only half his mind under the control of discipline and experience.

  ‘Bunts, tell W/T to make a signal to base. Require medical assistance.’

  Seymour looked up and nodded to Carroll’s troubled face. ‘I know the orders too. But make the signal anyway.’

  Pellegrine stepped back from the wheel and tapped Metcalf with his boot. ‘Here, boy, ‘op up and take the wheel. North eighty east, and mind you hold it there.’ He saw the astonishment in the youth’s upturned face and the fact he had blood on his hands. ‘You want to be a bloody officer? Well, take over!’

  The stocky coxswain dropped on his knees and opened Devane’s jacket before slitting his shirt with his knife.

  Seymour said tightly, ‘Lot of blood, Swain.’

  Pellegrine’s hands were already busy with a dressing. ‘Yeh. And a lot of man, too, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

  The picture refused to become any clearer. It was like a steamy window. Devane lay flat on his back and wondered if he would vomit. He felt sick and dizzy, and he guessed he had been pumped full of morphia both on the passage back to base and since then in this place.

  He made a feeble attempt to lift himself on his elbows, but weakness and the sudden reawakening of pain made him lie still again. Where was this place?

  A square, low-ceilinged room, blurred and in part shadow. Like a dream sequence, made more so by the other bed on the far side of the room. It too contained a motionless form, and sudden panic made Devane believe he was in fact dead and looking at himself.

  He stared at the ceiling until his head ached from concentration, and he tried to remember what had happened. But he could recall little, except vague pictures of groping hands, anxious, searching eyes.

  Devane had seen plenty of men die, and had expected to go the same way on many occasions. But this experience had shocked him deeply. His helplessness, and the complete lack of feeling when he had been struck during the Junkers’ final attack.

  He flexed his hand and knew that his watch had gone. He had no idea how long he had been here. No understanding of anything.

  A door opened somewhere and a white figure glided past the bed. It was a woman, a nurse, her eyes very dark above a kind of mask. She had bright red spots on her apron. Someone else’s blood.

  Devane moved his head painfully and watched her as she bent over the opposite bed. She was short and sturdy but surprisingly gentle as she turned the inert body on its side and examined some dressings.

  Then without another glance she pulled the sheet over the bed and covered the body from head to toe.

  She turned and walked towards Devane, slipping aside her mask as she did so. She had a round, almost Mongolian face, ageless, although Devane guessed she was in her early twenties.

  She took his wrist and checked his pulse, her eyes completely absorbed as she looked at her watch and then put his arm down on the bed again.

  It was so quiet he could hear her breathing, the soft squeak of starch as she bent over to remove the sheet and feel his dressings.

  ‘Am I going to live?’

  She did not understand a word. His voice brought no change of expression, and he had the sudden, mad desire to burst out laughing. It was completely crazy. Perhaps she was part of the nightmare. He would wake up at any second and discover, what?

  She eyed him calmly and then pushed some hair from his forehead. Her hand was hot but very soft.

  ‘Thanks.’ He tried to smile. ‘We don’t understand a bloody word, do we? But I know you’re helping me. I’m lucky. Not like the young stoker.’ His mind was straying again. ‘Not like. . . .’ He saw her eyes move to the enamel tray with its jars and needles. She was going to put him out again. Desperately he gripped her wrist and said, ‘Please, don’t do that! I’ll be quiet, if that’s what you want.’

  She released her wrist without effort and looked at him impassively. Then she seemed to come to a decision and left the room.

  A nurse who will not speak, and a body in the next bed who never can again.

  Devane lay back and felt the sweat trickling down his legs. He was naked, but felt as if he were wrapped in stifling blankets.

  Voices ebbed and flowed beyond the door and he thought he heard someone whistling.

  Then he looked up and saw Beresford standing beside the bed, and realized he must have fainted or fallen into a drugged sleep. He could see past Beresford, the other bed was empty and stripped clean.

  Beresford smiled. ‘All right?’

  Devane felt the despair giving way to sudden, uncontrollable emotion. ‘Fine. Yes, I’m feeli
ng great.’

  He hated Beresford seeing him like this. Helpless, and so grateful for his being here that he could not contain his feelings.

  Beresford squatted on a chair. ‘I’ve spoken to the doc. You’ll be up and about in no time.’ He reached across to the table and held up a star-shaped piece of metal. ‘See this, John? Jerry wanted you to have it. He made a damn good try to see you kept it too.’

  Devane closed his eyes. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Should have been worse. This lump of Krupp steel must have ricocheted off something before it slammed into you. Otherwise. . . .’ He did not elaborate.

  Beresford continued, ‘And in case you’re worrying, the boats got back intact. Three killed, including your two, but otherwise it was a perfect operation. Everybody was hopping with delight!’

  Delight. Devane thought of all those who had died in so short a time. Russians, Germans and three of his own.

  Beresford said, ‘Barker’s arrived, by the way.’

  Devane had to grapple with the name for several seconds. Commander Barker.

  ‘What does he say?’

  Beresford grimaced. ‘Not much. He’s a book man. A real gunnery type. He and I are going to get along like a house on fire. I don’t think. But the Russians made a big show for him, so maybe he’ll settle in.’ He sounded unconvinced.

  ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘This?’ Beresford looked round as if seeing the room for the first time. ‘It’s a really cushy billet. Fifty miles inland from Tuapse. A commandeered farm, now a field hospital for the army. There was a big flare up along the front while you were away, and there are about seven thousand casualties as a result. Quite a few of them seem to be here. You’re getting the red carpet treatment, all on your own.’

  ‘What about the other. . . .’

  Beresford glanced at the empty bed. ‘Oh, him.’ He shrugged. ‘Search me.’

  Outside the door someone coughed, and Beresford stood up.

  ‘Must dash. Can’t have your nurse getting stroppy. She’d have me for breakfast!’ He became serious again. ‘Everything’s quiet. Red Mackay’s half-stripe has been confirmed, so he’s driving the flotilla until you return to the fold. Dundas, your Number One, is taking care of Merlin, and Ivan is gloating over the captured E-boat.’ He touched Devane’s shoulder. ‘Take it easy, John. The war will still be there when you come back.’ Then he was gone.